


Living With Demons

by miss_grey



Series: What We Do In The Dark [52]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Slow Burn, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21988507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: After the events in Brooklyn, Carwood puts his life back together, piece by piece.
Relationships: Bill/Frannie, Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs
Series: What We Do In The Dark [52]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1366063
Comments: 38
Kudos: 73





	1. Deep Breaths

**Author's Note:**

> Alright folks, here is the first of our spin-off fics. I hope you all enjoy :)

“So, Lip, how are you doing today?” Dr. Meehan asked, leaning back in his chair behind his desk.

The room was neutral, decorated in light browns, creams, and beiges. A couple potted plants gave the room a pop of color and a window, behind Meehan, cast the place in natural light.

Carwood sat in front of the desk, his hands folded together in his lap, and smiled half-heartedly at his therapist. “You know how it goes. Some days are better than others.”

“And today?”

“Tough.” Carwood breathed for a minute. In, slowly. Hold. Exhale, the air taking the tension with it. He allowed his shoulders to relax a little. “Nightmares again.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Carwood shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t really know what to say about it.”

“You can say whatever you want,” Meehan assured him. “Or nothing at all. Whatever you need.”

Carwood took another deep, grounding breath. “I was paralyzed.” He murmured, casting his gaze down, away from Meehan’s open, honest face. 

“How long did it last this time?”

“Five minutes, give or take.” Carwood swallowed thickly, clenched and unclenched his hands. Took another deep, calming breath to steady himself. “I know that’s not long. Not really. But it feels like forever when it happens. I panic. It…it crushes me.” Deep breaths. “It makes me feel helpless.”

Meehan nodded. “That’s understandable. What did you do when it happened?”

“Tried to stay calm. Breathed through it, like you said.”

“Good.” Meehan sat up straighter and fixed Carwood in his steady gaze. “You’re doing what you can do, Lip. You’ve been through something traumatic. I’d like to tell you there’s a pill I could give you that would make it all better, but we both know that isn’t the way this works, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Carwood acknowledged.

“Yeah.” Meehan nodded. “All you can do is take care of yourself the best you can, and give it time.”

* * *

Carwood made his way to the bodega where he worked part time unpacking boxes and stocking new inventory. Frannie, the daughter of the woman who owned the place, smiled at him from behind the register when he walked in. “Hey, Lip!” She called.

“Hey Frannie. We got any boxes that need unpacked?”

“Yeah, we got a delivery last night. I put some away, but people have been in and out all morning, so I’ve been tied to the register.”

“Not a problem,” Carwood assured her, “I’ve got it.”

The stock room was close, cluttered with boxes and the odds and ends that inevitably accumulated at any family-run place of business, but it was also quiet. And safe.

Carwood liked working here. Frannie and her mother Shirley were nice, straight-forward women who’d been looking for someone to do some heavy lifting. Carwood had been looking for some part-time, honest work in George’s neighborhood. It was a match made in Heaven. The work was simple, tedious. He unpacked, counted, stacked, moved, did it all over again. He didn’t mind it at all. In fact, it was just what he needed right about now. It kept his hands busy and his mind blank. He didn’t have to think too much, and the routine movements allowed him to simply zone out and drift. Time passed quickly at the bodega.

Some nights Carwood helped Mrs. Chen to clean up after a long day of cooking and serving. It was convenient since Carwood currently lived in the apartment above her restaurant with George, and she often sent him home with leftovers and a soft pat on the cheek, telling him he was a good, hardworking boy. Other nights, Carwood worked in the kitchen at Toye’s, which had recently reopened. Malarkey was teaching him how to work the grill and he’d officially dubbed Carwood his sous chef (meaning Carwood cut up all of the fixings for the burgers and tidied the workspaces as the night wore on.)

Carwood was happy to be around people he knew and occasionally a few that he didn’t, but crowds bothered him more than they used to and he didn’t like the noise of the bar. The kitchen was alright, with Malarkey, Skip, and Penkala teasing each other as the night wore on. 

Things were okay. Mostly. Or at least…they would be okay, eventually. That’s what George kept telling him and that’s what Meehan told him as well. Though the therapist had also noted “Okay doesn’t mean the same, Lip. Things have changed and it’s not helpful to pretend that they haven’t. But different doesn’t mean not okay.”

So, Carwood woke up in the morning, kept himself busy, and went to therapy twice a week. Some days he was so filled with anxiety that he thought he might shake himself apart just sitting there, and he’d fought to hold himself together on some mornings. It was hard to make it through the front door on those days, but he knew it was worse to stay in the apartment by himself, trapped with nothing but his own thoughts. 

Slowly, over the course of weeks, Carwood was learning how to be comfortable in his own skin again. It was tough sometimes, because he could still imagine, some days, that he was trapped inside and all of this was just a trick, a deception. Other days, he knew he was alone in his body, but he didn’t quite trust himself anymore. That was perhaps the hardest.

Carwood had been a hunter for years, had faced down monsters of all kinds and was still standing, but there was a kind of fear, uncertainty, that was so insidious that it crawled under his skin and choked the air out of him sometimes. Was it safe to leave the apartment? Go down the street? What if he wasn’t prepared? What if he wasn’t strong, smart, fast enough to protect himself?

He’d gotten the tattoo that Dick had suggested and it nestled, comfortingly over his heart. Some days that was enough. Other days, it wasn’t. He found himself waking sometimes, in the middle of the night, reciting a Latin exorcism under his breath. He was convinced that if he stumbled into the bathroom and glanced in the mirror, his eyes would be black. 

But that was ridiculous, wasn’t it?

After his shift in the kitchen, Carwood washed his hands, said goodnight to Joe and Bill, and made his way back to the apartment, wondering if George would be in when he got there. A couple minutes into his walk, his phone buzzed.

_Can I see you tonight?_

Carwood looked up, brows furrowed, but lips curling without his consent, as if he expected to find Ron already there in front of him.

Carwood took a deep, calming breath, like Meehan had taught him. Counted to twenty, silently, to give himself time to think before he replied. _I’m coming over._ Message sent, Carwood tucked his phone into his pocket and changed course.

Ron kept an apartment a couple blocks from George’s now, but already in a noticeably better part of town. Carwood nodded to the doorman, who recognized him, and turned away from the elevator, opting instead to take the stairs. Three floors up, he pushed through the fire door and made his way to 304. He rapped his knuckles against the door once and then Ron was there, smiling at him and stepping back to let him in.

Carwood wrapped his arms around himself and walked in, passing Ron as he did so. Ron hovered, close, at his back but kept his hands to himself. He followed Carwood into the warmth of the apartment then watched, hazel eyes intense, as Carwood took a seat on his plush scarlet sofa. Ron settled into the chair across from the sofa, eyes still assessing, as he took an inventory of Carwood. 

Carwood had grown used to this kind of scrutiny and decided to wait Ron out. Finally, the demon relaxed back in his chair and said “How are you today?”

Carwood allowed a small smile. “I’m alright. Worked a couple shifts.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“How was your day?”

Ron cocked his head, considering, then shrugged softly. _Human mannerisms._ “It was fine. I kept myself occupied as well.” 

Carwood wasn’t going to ask what he’d done. There were some things that they couldn’t talk about, at least not yet, in this tentative attempt at friendship they’d agreed to after… _everything._

Still, Ron must’ve guessed what he was thinking, because he pursed his lips, met Carwood’s eyes, and said “Luz was here. We…spoke.”

Carwood didn’t have much to say about that, but he knew that Ron was trying, knew that it was important to him, so he nodded and said “Alright.”

“Have you eaten?” Ron asked suddenly, standing from his seat. “I can order something if you’re hungry.”

Carwood forced a smile. “I’m fine. I ate at the bar.”

“Alright.” Ron stood there, awkward, eerily still, not even bothering with the veneer of humanity this time—no nervous ticks, no fidgets. Just absolute stillness and a gaze that could pierce through Carwood but didn’t, held back intentionally. “I’m glad you came over.”

Carwood nodded. “Yeah.”

“I have a gift for you.”

Carwood opened his mouth to protest, suddenly concerned, but then clicked his jaw closed again. He counted to ten. “You didn’t need to do that.” He said, almost terrified by what the gift might be. The last time Ron had wanted to give him a gift, they’d ended up with dead vampires.

Again, Ron must’ve anticipated his train of thought because he cast Carwood a self-deprecating smile and said “I wanted to.” He walked purposefully to the table then back with something clutched in his hands. Realizing it likely wasn’t something violent, Carwood couldn’t help his curiosity. “Here,” Ron said, handing over the package. “Go ahead, open it.”

Carwood held the soft cognac colored leather portfolio in his hands. It was smooth, supple. Obviously expensive. The portfolio was wrapped in a leather binding which Carwood unwound slowly, holding his breath as he did. The portfolio opened to reveal a clean, creamy sketchpad and a selection of charcoals and pencils. Carwood ran the pad of his fingers across the thick paper and felt a warmth settle in his chest. He raised his eyes to Ron, who was watching him warily, expectantly. “This is beautiful,” Carwood murmured, “thank you.”

Ron shifted on his feet and smiled, his eyes softening at the corners. “You mentioned before, when we first met, that you liked to draw.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his feet, providing an illusion of distance. “I hope it helps.”


	2. Back Against the Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery isn't a straight line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here it is folks, my last post of 2019 and the decade! I feel pretty accomplished :)

“Whenever I’m in a room, I find myself putting my back against a wall. My eyes go to the windows and doors, cataloguing exits. I study the people around me.”

Meehan nodded softly and rocked back in his chair. “Understandable. In your profession, necessary. Was this a habit from before or after?”

Carwood frowned, rubbing a hand against his temple. Headache, again. He forced himself to take a couple long, deep breaths before responding. “The looking, the watching…that’s from before. I always had to be cautious, especially because it wasn’t just my back I was watching.” He shifted, folded his hands together, unfolded them. Frowned, because it was hard to put into words. “It’s different now, though. Before…it was a good habit. Just part of the job. I think every hunter does that. At least, the good ones do. But now….” Carwood met Meehan’s calm, open gaze. “Now it’s a compulsion. It’s…paranoid. I can’t seem to stop. I even do it at home. I feel tense all the time. On guard. That’s not the same as before.”

“Is there anywhere you _do_ feel safe?”

“A place? Uhh, probably my friend’s house. Where I used to live. It was safe.”

“What about it made you feel safe?”

Carwood chuckled. “No people. My best friend was there and he’s always had my back. When the, uh…when it happened, he was somewhere else.” Carwood fiddled with his hands, twisting his fingers together again. He took a long, deep breath to settle the mounting anxiety. 

“It’s okay,” Meehan said, aware of Carwood’s struggle. “Take your time.”

Carwood flashed the man a thankful quirk of his lips. “It was warded, too.” Carwood finally said. “Those wards kept everything out.” He brushed his fingers over his chest, where his one and only tattoo resided. “I don’t want to have to live behind wards my whole life, though.”

“It’s common, for people who have experienced trauma, to have those thoughts and feelings. You know what can happen and so now you see the potential for it everywhere, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s okay to have those thoughts. But I want to help you learn to control them. None of us can really know what’s going to happen on any given day. Trying to predict and prepare for countless possibilities will exhaust you.”

Carwood bowed his head, because he knew it was true. “I _am_ exhausted.”

“Is there anything else that makes you feel safe? Anything other than a place?”

Carwood thought of George, who’d come to find him. Who brought him a glass of water when we woke, upset, in the middle of the night. He thought of the playful banter between Malarkey, Skip, and Penkala in the kitchen at the bar, elbows nudging him when they told a joke. He thought of Ron, holding him while his body knit itself back together. Carwood cleared his throat and said “My friends.”

“Good.” Meehan said, sitting straight again and leaning across his desk so that he could meet Carwood’s eyes. “It’s okay to lean on them a bit right now, Lip. They’re your friends. They love you.”

* * *

Carwood had just finished restocking the shelves at the bodega and was on his way home when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw that Dick was calling. He smiled and answered the call. “Hey, Dick, how are you?”

“Doing pretty good. How are you?”

“Oh, you know. Getting by.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Carwood ambled down the sidewalk, intent on remaining casual. “Just working, keeping busy.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.” He wanted to scramble for something to say, felt the anxiety rise up in him at not having anything, and then decided it was okay. It didn’t have to be difficult. It was just Dick, after all. He’d understand. “How’s Nix?”

Dick sighed, but Carwood could hear the smile in the sound. “He’s good. Really good, actually. He uh…he took Benny for a drive. We were out of milk.”

Carwood snorted, imaging the former vampire in his convertible, a floppy Golden Retriever puppy riding shotgun, on their way to get milk, of all things. How incredibly domestic. How incredibly…safe. “He’s adjusting okay?”

He could imagine Dick’s shrug. “Some days are harder than others. You know.”

“Yeah,” Carwood said, “I do.”

Dick fiddled with something on the other end of line, stalling, avoiding, something Dick wasn’t fond of doing. Finally, “How’s everyone else?”

“Everyone’s good. George has been really supportive. The Pack…well. They’re the same—coarse, rambunctious, but, uh… helpful. They’re helpful.”

“Good. That’s…good.” Another small pause. More fiddling. Then, “And Speirs?”

Carwood felt a wave of nausea roll through his belly, rise up as bile in his throat, but he forced it down and swallowed thickly. He counted to ten, just like Meehan said. _There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It is what it is. This is my life now._ “He’s…trying.” Carwood said, as delicately as he could. Dick was silent on the other end of the line, perhaps thinking of something supportive to say. Or maybe anything at all. “He’s giving me space, like I asked for.”

“And are you…happy?”

 _What a weird question,_ Carwood thought. He didn’t even know what that _meant_ anymore. Happy. He was much more concerned with things much more basic than that: healthy, safe, sane, in control. Carwood pasted a beleaguered half smile to his face, though he knew Dick couldn’t see it. “I’m working on it.”

* * *

“Hey Lip,” George called over his shoulder as Carwood entered the apartment, “I’m cooking up some pasta for dinner, you want some?”

Carwood flashed George a smile. “Yeah. Pasta sounds great. Thanks George.”

George grinned back. “Anytime, Lip.” He turned back to the stove and stirred a pot of sauce. “How was work?”

“Good. Helped Frannie with some stocking. Cleaned up a bit. Nothing much.”

“How is Frannie?” George asked, swiping his finger through the sauce before popping it into his mouth. “Mmmm…this is good.” 

Carwood shook his head at his friend. “She’s good. Busy, as usual. I was thinking of inviting her to Toye’s one of these days, after her shift.”

“Ooooh,” George said, turning and waggling his eyebrows, “asking her out, huh?”

Carwood huffed and flopped onto the couch, which still served as his bed. “It’s not like that, George. It’s just…she seems like a nice person, but she works really hard and I don’t think she gets out much. We’re friends.”

“Ah, well.” George said, waving his spatula. “Friends are good to have. You should invite her. Need more girls around Toye’s place anyway.”

Carwood shook his head but decided not to take that particular bait. They both knew that _girls_ were not the reason that George spent time at the bar. Instead, he decided to be a good friend and asked “How was your day? Anything interesting?”

“Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that.” Which, Carwood had come to find out in the last few months, was actually how George referred to his job as a handyman in the neighborhood. He wasn’t sure why George never just said what he did, but Carwood didn’t see anything shameful in helping little old ladies to fix their leaky sinks or patch their roofs. “Mrs. Harlan sent me home with cookies.”

“Mrs. Harlan….” Carwood mused, “Is she the one with the…?”

“Leaky roof? Yeah. Anyway, the cookies are pretty good. You can have some.”

“Thanks.” Carwood unlaced his boots and then stretched his legs out, his muscles pulling. They still ached sometimes. Phantom pains, maybe, or permanent damage that he simply didn’t understand yet. 

“I saw Speirs today.” George added, voice lighter than Carwood thought it probably should be at such a declaration.

 _Well, if that’s how he wants to play it,_ Carwood thought. He shrugged his shoulders and leaned back into the couch. “Oh?”

“He just wanted to chat.”

 _Yeah, right,_ Carwood thought, _Ron isn’t the “chatting” type._ He snorted. “Chat?”

“Yeah,” George said, all innocence. “I think the guy gets lonely.”

* * *

That night, as Carwood lay with his arm tucked behind his head on the couch, George snoring away in his bedroom a dozen feet away, Carwood’s stomach did a strange flip when his phone began to vibrate. He didn’t have to guess who it was. There was only one person who had taken to calling him at this time of night. Well… _person._ “Ron,” Carwood answered, and he’d never get over hearing that little hitch of breath on the other end of the line.

“Carwood,” Ron breathed, “I hope I didn’t wake you.” _The same line every time, even though he knows damn well I’m still awake._

“No.”

The line was silent, then, except for the soft breathing, which Carwood knew should upset him, or annoy him, or make him even more paranoid. But instead, it just…comforted him. For reasons he couldn’t even begin to analyze just yet. Ron’s voice was steady, warm, deep, when he said “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

A warm flutter came alive in Carwood’s belly but he forced it to settle down. “Well, I’m here.” Then, knowing he was being unfair, asked, “Did you do anything interesting today?”

Ron was silent for a moment, weighing his words. Then, “I learned something.”

“Something good?” _I hope._

“I think so. I could show you, if you came over tomorrow.”

Carwood’s heart leapt and then began a staccato beat. His hands clenched and unclenched, he felt sweat forming on his brow. “Tomorrow I’m…busy,” Carwood lied, the words heavy in his mouth. He felt guilty right after. _Funny. Guilty over lying to a demon._ “But…I can come over the day after.”

Carwood could imagine the tense smile on Ron’s face, knew the demon had probably picked up on his lie. _He’s better at it than I am._ And yet, Ron let it pass, unspoken, and agreed “The day after tomorrow, then.” He breathed, soft and deep, lulling, and Carwood could feel his eyelids grow heavy. Finally, Ron murmured “Sleep well, Carwood,” before he ended the call.

And, miraculously, Carwood did.


	3. In This Moment, I'm Okay

Carwood jerked awake, his heart hammering, his stomach twisting and his whole body seized up, paralyzed by a choking, insidious anxiety that permeated through to his fingers and toes and had no identifiable origin. He lay, still, his eyes struggling to see through the dark, the shapes of the apartment slowly materializing into sense out of the gloom. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He was trapped. Trapped. 

One breath. Two. Heartbeat…slow…breathe, just breathe. 

He breathed for a while.

Eventually, tingling feeling came back to his fingers and he twitched them, then his arms and legs became his own once more.

Then all of a sudden, he had control again, physically at least, and he bolted up, stomach roiling, clenched down in a bid to hold the anxiety at bay. Everything was wrong, everything was bad, everything was _hurting, hopeless, no way out. Oh god, this is the end, this is it, there’s nothing left, there’s…._

Meehan’s voice broke through his spiraling mental litany and reminded him: _What can you see? What can you touch? Count to five. Are you okay? Count to ten._

Slowly, forcibly, Carwood wrenched back control of his thoughts. His whole body trembled from the effort and he folded his shaking hands in his lap. “I’m okay,” he whispered to himself, “I’m okay. Right now, here, in this moment…I’m okay.” His shoulders shuddered, a chill creeping in, but Carwood didn’t bother with pulling up the covers. It was good to remind himself where he was, what was real. This cold was okay, this discomfort was okay. He could feel and he was alive, and _he was okay._

“ _I’m at Luz’s apartment, on the couch. No one is hurting me. I’m okay.”_ He pressed his hand against the tattoo on his chest. _“Nothing can get to me. I’m okay. I have everything I need right now. I’m okay._ ”

He knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep after that—he never could—but it was alright, because he’d managed to do the hardest part, which was regain control over his thoughts and soothe his breathing out to normal. 

Carwood folded the blankets back and dropped his bare feet to the floor, rising and stretching. A run would help. The city was still sleeping, the rising sun had barely begun to tinge the sky purple. Just around the block, just to remind himself that he could run and he could breathe, and he was okay.

Pulling on his sweats and shoes, Carwood grabbed a bottle of water and slipped out into the morning.

One block turned into two, into three, into four, and he wasn’t ready to stop yet. His muscles burned and his breath whooshed in and out of him, but the steady slap of his feet against the pavement and the sweat dotting his brow were the only things that felt real right now. Around him, the city began to wake, slowly, the sun trickling pale light over the silhouettes of apartment buildings and distant high-rises. A dog barked somewhere in the neighborhood and Carwood heard sliding doors pulling open to let in the clean, crisp morning air. 

When he’d emerged onto the street from George’s place, he’d been wound so tight he thought he might vomit, but after fifteen minutes he’d begun to relax, his muscles loosening, his attention focusing on the way his body felt, the simple, repetitive movements. Cold air in, warm air out. The streets were mostly empty still, with the exception of a few early risers already on their way to work.

Carwood had been going for a half hour already when he spotted a familiar shape on the street in front of him, growing closer, also dressed for an early-morning run. Carwood allowed a small smile to curl his lips and he pulled up to a stop at the same time as Joe Toye. The werewolf smiled at him and said “Mornin’, Lip. How long you been out?”

Carwood thought about it for a minute then said, panting, “’Bout a half hour. You?”

“Just started. I usually do at least three miles in the mornings before I head in.”

Carwood whistled. “Sounds nice. I’ve been out of practice, but trying to get back into it. Figured, you know…it’ll help.”

“Yeah,” Joe agreed, “running helps with a lot. At least, for me it does.” He was quiet for a minute, shifting on his feet, then he said, “You know…if you’re interested, I could use a running partner. Someone who can keep up but also push me a bit. Still trying to recover my old time since I broke my leg.”

Something warm and solid and soothing settled in Carwood’s chest and he huffed out a grateful breath. “Yeah, Joe, that sounds good. Tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah.” Joe quirked a smile. “Alright, I’ll see you at the bar tonight, Lip.”

“Yeah. Enjoy your run.” Carwood waved and then started back up again, feeling lighter than he had in a while. As the sweat began to cool on his brow, he realized that the tight, winding feeling in his chest, the insatiable need to just keep going and going and going, had finally abated. It was okay to go home now.

* * *

It was just before midday when Carwood pushed gently through the bodega’s door, the bell tinkling overhead. Frannie smiled at him from behind the counter when she saw him, calling “Lip! Finally! I’ve been so bored.” She huffed a laugh at herself and explained “The store’s been dead this morning. Had someone come in for lottery tickets a little while ago, but that was the first person in an hour.”

Carwood smiled and approached Frannie, leaning against the counter. “You’re right. Sounds boring.”

“It is. Talk to me.”

Carwood laughed. “What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything. Seriously. I’ve been going crazy here.”

“Alright.” Carwood thought back to what he’d said to George the day before and decided to go with it. “You know I work at a bar part time, too, right?”

“Yeah, you mentioned. Toye’s right? I’ve heard of it but never been.”

“Yeah, Toye’s. Anyway, I was headed over there just to hang out this evening and wondered if you wanted to come? As friends, you know. If you wanted to get out and meet some people.”

Frannie twisted her hands together on the counter and cast a glance over her shoulder, as if she expected her mother to be there, eavesdropping. Carwood did his best to hold back the quirk of a smile. “Just as friends?”

“Yeah,” Carwood assured. “Figured I could introduce you around to some of the guys. They’re good people. Besides, friends hang out, right?”

“Right.” Frannie smiled. “What time?”

“How about 8:00?”

“Sounds great. I’ll uh…meet you there?”

“If you want. You know where it is?”

Frannie smirked, her face lit up, and Carwood was glad now that he’d asked. “I’ll find it.”

* * *

At 8:00 sharp, Carwood stood outside of Toye’s, waiting for Frannie to show up. The guys were great and the place wasn’t exactly rowdy, but it was rather lacking in female customers and Carwood didn’t want Frannie to feel weird when she walked in. At 8:05, she strolled around the corner, dressed a little nicer than she usually was at the bodega, hair curled and eyeliner done very precisely. Carwood smiled when he saw her and he felt a wave of warm affection roll through him—he was really glad he’d asked her now. It was obvious, after working with her for only a short time, that she didn’t have a ton of friends or get out much. He figured most of that was down to working all the time and an over-protective mother. But he was glad she was here now, and he hoped she liked the place. He knew the guys were gonna love her.

“Hey,” she greeted, breathless, like she’d been hurrying, and Carwood couldn’t really blame her. The streets were getting dark and…. He froze, his air choking off, eyes going unfocused. _Why had he let her come alone? Why hadn’t he insisted on walking her? On getting her a cab?! How could he have? There were shadows…who knew what was in them? Who knew? What if she’d…what if she’d…?!_ “Lip?” She asked, drawing close and laying a hand on his arm. “Are you alright?”

Carwood sucked in a breath and forced a smile. He unclenched the hands he hadn’t realized he’d balled into fists. “Fine. I’m fine.” Another breath. “You find the place okay?” _Don’t smother her because of your issues. She deserves this freedom. Show her a good night out._

“Yeah, easy enough. I don’t know why I’ve never been over here before.” She shrugged. “So…should we go in?”

“Yeah.” Carwood smiled and opened the door for her.

He led her to a couple of stools at the bar and he could practically feel the eyes of all of the wolves and patrons follow the two of them as they took their seats. There were a couple of other women there that night, girlfriends of some of the guys, so the place hopefully didn’t seem too off-putting. However, as George Luz, bartender for the night, fixed his gaze on her and grinned in his friendly way, Carwood knew he’d worried for nothing. 

“You must be Frannie!” George exclaimed, leaning across the bar and offering his hand. “I’m George. Lip talks about you all the time.”

Carwood rolled his eyes and muttered “Not all the time,” at the same time as Frannie grinned and said “Yep, that’s me. Nice to meet you, George.”

“What can I get ya to drink? First one’s on me.”

“Oh, um….” She tapped her finger against her lips then grinned. “Could you do a rum and cherry coke?”

George smiled. “Well, that sounds both tasty and fun.” He winked. “I’ve got coke and some grenadine. I can throw some cherries in. Sound alright?”

Another huge grin. “Sounds fabulous. Thank you, George.”

“No problem.”

And Carwood was impressed, actually, that George even had grenadine back there. Most of the bar’s patrons drank beer or hard liquor. But then again, George _did_ know what he was doing behind the bar, and Babe had too. At the thought of the younger man, Carwood felt a pang in his chest, followed by a strange wave of cold that rolled over his skin. _Alright, no more thinking about Babe tonight._

“So, you work here, huh?” Frannie asked, after George had settled her drink in front of her. “You like it?”

Carwood nodded and took a sip of the beer that George had passed him. “Yeah, it’s nice. Like I said, they’re good people here. I’m staying with George at the moment.”

“Right.” She took a drink and nodded, licking her lips at the sweetness of the grenadine. “You mentioned.”

“So…what do you think?”

Frannie leaned back on her stool and glanced around. “It’s simple but… nice. Nothing pretentious about it. I like it. Your other friends around here?”

Carwood chuckled. “I’m sure they are. Probably in the back. You hungry? Malarkey’s a pretty good cook.”

“They have fries? I could definitely go for some fries.”

Carwood smiled. “They definitely have fries.”

And so, that’s how Carwood found himself fifteen minutes later having a drink, eating some fries, and getting his ass kicked at pool by his very pretty friend. It had only taken five minutes for Carwood to figure out that challenging Frannie to a game had been a mistake. She was much better at it than he was. And unlike some of the Pack, she didn’t even bother trying to pretend like she wasn’t good—there was no sharking here—she just soundly wiped the floor with him and he had so admit, he was impressed but not entirely surprised. Frannie was cool like that.

They’d drawn a crowd. Muck and Penkala leaned on each other and catcalled Carwood every time he missed a shot, then roared loudly in support of Frannie every time she got one. Malarkey brought her more fries without even being asked and then hung around to watch.

Frannie didn’t seem to mind the crowd. In fact, she seemed to become even more powerful with the attention. After she mercilessly slaughtered Carwood, she beat Muck, then Penkala soon after. “Where did you learn to play like this?” Carwood asked, grinning around a beer. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket but he ignored it. “You’re really good.”

“Thanks.” Frannie grinned. “Ex-boyfriend.”

“Ex, huh?” George asked, taking up a cue of his own, preparing to be soundly beaten. 

“Yep.” Frannie took her first shot and Carwood couldn’t help laughing at the look on George’s face. “He didn’t like losing.”

As Frannie continued to take each of the boys to task, one after the other, Carwood stepped away to check his texts. He knew she was in good hands—the wolves were good guys after all, but it seemed that Frannie had thoroughly won them over and Carwood hoped that meant she’d come back again. She seemed lighter, happier, than he usually saw her and that made him happy, too. She deserved it.

The text was, predictably, from Ron. One of his usual texts, just checking in, just wanting to know if Carwood was okay, just…blah, blah, blah. Carwood stared at it for a moment, his mind in a strange place, both thinking and…blessedly blank. Like a heavy cloud over all of his thoughts, so that he didn’t seem to care too much at the moment. He thought of replying, of assuring Ron that he was okay, he was fine, yes, he’d see him tomorrow. But then…he didn’t. He just stared at the text for another moment before slipping the phone back into his pocket. He hadn’t needed Meehan for this particular lesson. This one, he’d learned on his own, the hard way. _This…whatever it is…will happen on my terms, in my time, and no one else’s. I don’t owe Ron anything._

So Carwood shook off his mood, squared his shoulders, and went back into the bar to join his friends.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, comments are love! Please let me know what you thought :) Also, feel free to come say hi on tumblr. I'm @realhunterswearplaid.


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